Each time he came with his black hood and box
to record a special day, a baby’s birth,
a first communion, someone taking off
to Nueva York, a divorced aunt’s return
from a trip to France, an advanced degree
by the family intellectual,
or the announcement of religious vows
by the plain cousin (pobrecita!)
with the faint mustache and the heart of gold—
a gathering of the tribe, two dozen strong,
scrubbed, perfumed, permed, coifed, and gussied up,
a command performance at my grandparents’ house,
while he, dressed cheaply in a faded suit,
sweat beading his brow, struggled to record
that unforgettable day, posing us
in perfect order, faces to the sun,
jokes cracked for smiles, cowlicks patted down,
sashes and bows retied, the boys’ flies checked:
a perfect tableau for posterity,
hereditary gods and goddesses—
but every time he was about to snap,
a giggling bout attacked the children’s row
or Tío sneezed or Abuelita burped
or someone who wouldn’t fess up farted,
and the portrait was ruined! He’d poke out
his mournful face from under his black hood,
glancing around at his marred masterpiece,
his passion trivialized, his art abused—
pobrecito! Now I know how he felt
struggling to get all that life on paper.